


Carmine

by Pigeon



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:18:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigeon/pseuds/Pigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nighttime and dreams and witchcraft</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carmine

It’s the smells that suffuse the cabin that makes Will’s sleep so _restless_.

It’s the _Witchy_ curls of cinnamon and juniper and the _damp-rotten-heaviness_ of moss and fungus that Tia Dalma brews up at night that fills his head with whirling images and makes his chest tight.

And she sings as she concocts whatever it is she’s concocting; and Will cannot tell if they’re spells and chants and deep dark magic (the kind whispered of at night, when sounds crowd at you and shivers have little to do with the cold), or just old songs back from childhood and whatever place she once hailed from.

But he breathes in the scents at night, wrapped in a blanket and sleeping on his rickety little pallet, and _that’s_ what causes these hot, breathless, frightening dreams.

Tia Dalma does not seem to sleep.

And only Will had not balked at the thought of making his bed on her dirt-strewn floor.

“Drink dis.” Will hadn’t realised she knew he was awake, sweat drying on his forehead, breath catching in his throat, and the damned _smell_ of her sorcery everywhere.

“Sorry?”

“Dis.” She shoved a mug into his hand, leaning down to peer into his face.

Not rum, nor brandy, but something that scorches as it slide down and warms his belly. Will swallows deeply and nods his thanks.

“Fate and others whisper to you in de night, William.” She turns her back on him, taking a pestle and mortar in hand. “You should listen to those dreams.”

There’s a sharp scent as she crushes cloves, grinding them down to nothing.

He rises, a sharp prickle between his shoulder-blades, and watches as she reaches with quick, pretty fingers ( _fast and agile and just as greedy and tricksy as Jack’s had been_ ) into a bowl and pulls out a scattering of beetles.

“Cochinea’.” Her voice drops low and he cannot make out the words, just the low swaying rhythm of them.

He takes another sip of his drink. He doesn’t know what’s in it and thinks he should probably care, but he can still feel the last tingles of his dream skipping over his skin ( _blood thrumming and crimson before his eyes and Jack’s – a pirate, a good man – grin flashing_ ) and cannot summon the energy to care.

Tia Dalma begins to crush the beetles with an age-old stroke. “These have many uses, William, dey play a little part in many greater things. We make Carmine from these…”

Her voice trails off.

Will steps back, goes back to the small pallet that barely fits him resting on the floor.

“All de pretty girls and de pretty boys all bright and live with rouge.” Will tugs the blanket around his shoulders and lets Tia Dalma’s voice drift by. “All those dreams dat the night sends you, boy, all those dreams of clever Jack.”

Will looks up but bites his tongue, there are no words with which to argue with.

Tia Dalma laughs and Will sinks back down into sleep and red bewitched dreams.  



End file.
